


Looks better on you

by WhiteLadyoftheRing



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-01
Updated: 2013-05-01
Packaged: 2017-12-10 01:46:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,846
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/780357
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhiteLadyoftheRing/pseuds/WhiteLadyoftheRing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Charming teaches Snow about firearms.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Looks better on you

**Author's Note:**

> This is a birthday present for my amazing beta, Angie. I hope you enjoy it!!!
> 
> This is also a follow-up to "You like the holster, huh?" Got some help as far as the prompt and things that must be included by the great OUAT Skype Party of 2013 (aka the Prairie Dog Graham Fellowship of Ginny's Boobs).
> 
> Please excuse any mistakes, as this is a present for my beta, it is completely un-beta'd.

David has always been a stubborn man. In many ways, it’s his greatest flaw, but sometimes - such as being faced with running a kingdom - sticking to one’s gumption is a blessing. His mother had always admonished him, telling him that he can’t always get what he wants. He never listened. He would save the farm and find true love. He would defy King George and still protect the ones he loved.

 

Well, that almost worked out.

 

Similarly, his wife is a stubborn woman. So stubborn, in fact, that she insists that he is more stubborn than she. He loves her for it, though; loves the way she commands a royal court or classroom, the way she controls the battlefield, refusing to sit on the sidelines just because she’s a woman.

 

Unfortunately, this means disagreements can be particularly difficult to overcome.

 

“I don’t understand why you want me to do this,” she says, stalking through the woods alongside him. He offers her a hand to help her down a particularly steep section, and she accepts it, but merely threads her fingers through his without leaning on him. “I can use a sword. I can use a bow. Better than you, in fact. So why would I need to know how to shoot a gun?”

 

“Why not?” he counters, and leads her deeper in.

 

“I can reuse my arrows,” she says, making a point of resituating the quiver slung across her back. “You can’t reuse bullets. And we won’t have need to make any more once we’ve returned home.”

 

He sighs. He knew this would be her argument from the beginning. The ever-practical Snow. He stops, halting her as well with a tug on her hand. She tilts her head at him, that loving, concerned gaze that he knows so well. He’ll never imply that she can’t take care of herself, but his dedication to her safety is something he knows she holds dear. “Maybe,” he says, “I just want you to know how? Just in case.”

 

She considers this for a moment. (He knows he’s won; he always wins this way.) “Okay,” she concedes, and they resume their journey.

 

They reach the clearing and set down their bags, full of old soda cans and beer bottles, and line them up some ten yards down. David calls out to hear if there’s anyone around, and when no reply comes, he pulls a pistol from his holster.

 

“Can I trust you not to shoot me with this?” he teases, offering her the weapon.

 

She accepts it, and seems taken aback by its weight. “Probably not,” she says evenly.

 

“Okay,” he grins, and sidles up behind her. “Raise the gun.”

 

She does, aiming clearly too high to hit any of their targets.

 

“Lower,” he soothes. He feels the muscles of her shoulders relax under his palms. He strokes his fingers down the length of her arms, feels the strength and agility there - the long nimble lines of an archer - as his hands finally encase hers. “Wrap around with your right hand,” he instructs, moving her left hand beneath the weapon. “And support with your left.”

 

“Like this?” she asks, voice soft.

 

“Yes,” he whispers, feeling her body tucked tightly to his. “Now you see the sights?”

 

“Yeah, I think so.”

 

“Level the middle one with the two on the outside,” he says, tilting the gun back and forth so she can see. “Focus on the middle one, and center it on your target.”

 

“Okay,” she says, and adjusts. All business. All Snow.

 

“Now,” he breathes, feeling her nerves stand on end, “inhale.” She does. “And when you exhale, squeeze the trigger; don’t pull it.”

 

She steadies herself for a moment, and then does as he says - _exhale, focus, squeeze_ \- and a can leaps from its perch.

 

“Perfect,” he says, and she turns to smile up at him, pride shining through despite her initial reluctance. He kisses her softly, then pulls away to look at her; she looks good with a weapon in her hand. “Ready to try another?”

 

\--

 

“See? That wasn’t so bad, was it?” David teases.

 

They’re lugging their supplies back from the forest, and though it’s the same lot they’d brought with them, it feels like much more to Snow’s fatigued body.

 

“No,” she admits reluctantly. “But I still don’t see why I needed to learn in the first place. My bow is just fine.”

 

“Not as effective at close range,” he counters, falling behind to retrieve an errant soda can.

 

She keeps moving, trudging forward with her share of the targets and discarded brass. “And when is anyone going to get close enough to - ah!” And then his arms are around her from behind, lifting her off the ground as their bags fall to the forest floor around them.

 

“You were saying?” he laughs against her ear, and she turns to kiss him; he tastes of gunpowder and pine needles.

 

\--

 

By the time they return, they’re both filthy from the journey, and Snow immediately shoves David in the direction of the shower.

 

“Join me,” he asks, tracing a hand over her hip.

 

She leans up to kiss him, lingering against his lips. “Maybe,” she says softly. “Want to put the weapons away. Henry-”

 

He sighs. She has a point. Their grandson may be a smart kid, but he has a penchant for finding trouble, always so eager to be a hero. “I can do that,” he says. “Give you a head start?”

 

She shakes her head, then leans up on her toes to kiss him slowly. “Go on,” she whispers as she pulls away. “I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

 

But the water begins to run cold and his wife has yet to join him, so he dries off and wraps a towel around his waist, making his way to the bedroom. “Snow?” he calls out. “Everything okay?”

 

“I’m right here.”

 

And there she is, leaning against the wall dressed head to toe in white - white corset, white panties, white stockings held up by white garters - his _shoulder holster_ fastened around her small frame. “Uh,” he stutters, eyes washing over her from top to bottom and then back again, “hi.”

 

She approaches him, sauntering with the confidence that Mary Margaret alone never had. “You like the holster, huh?” she teases and rests her hands against his hips, teasing the edge of his towel.

 

David gulps. “Um,” he says dumbly, and he’s sure the smile on his face is ridiculous enough that she’s staving off laughter. He swallows thickly, already feeling his arousal pressing against the towel as her fingers stroke over his bare skin. “What about Emma?” he asks, some logical corner of his mind afraid of a (more embarrassing) repeat performance of that one afternoon. “And Henry?”

 

“Sent her a text,” Snow replies devilishly. “Told her to take Henry out for ice cream. My treat. And to let me know when they’re on their way home.”

 

He can’t help but laugh at that. “Oh, no, is she traumatized?”

 

Snow shrugs, closing the remaining distance between them. “Only a little,” she admits, then adds in an echo of maternal wisdom, “It’s good for her. Builds character.” And then she’s rising on her toes to press a slow, lingering kiss to his mouth. Her fingers wind their way into his hair, still damp from the shower, and he moans into her mouth as she massages his scalp.

 

“Snow,” he sighs, lips barely a breath from hers.

 

She kisses him lightly. “You don’t call me that very often anymore,” she tells him, sounding a little disappointed.

 

He cups her cheek in his palm. “Maybe,” he whispers, “I’m just selfish and want to keep that part of you for myself.”

 

This must stir something within her, because the next thing he knows, she’s jumping him - quite literally - legs wrapped firmly around his waist, arms round his neck as she kisses him, no longer sweet and gentle. She tugs at his lower lip with her teeth, eliciting from him a low groan. In the meanwhile, he’s gone from simply ‘aroused’ to ‘hard as fuck’, and when he grinds his hips into hers, hands grasping her ass, the towel shimmies its way to the floor.

 

“Snow,” he groans again, and he can practically feel the tingle that runs down her spine, senses it in the way her body goes flush against his.

 

“Charming,” she replies, her mouth now moving down his neck - down, down until she bites down then sucks. He almost loses his footing, the heat of her mouth making him unsteady (unsteady twice over, in fact, as he holds her weight). He’s certain he’ll have an impressive bruise in the morning, the crook of his neck aching wonderfully beneath her lips.

 

He walks them carefully to the bed, urging her to release him as he sets her down, guiding her head to a pillow. He pauses for a moment, taking her in. It’s so familiar, he thinks, this image of her all in white, smiling up at him with wide, dark eyes. She was younger then - not much younger in years, but in soul - and her hair had been splayed out all around her, an inky sea against the white sheets.

 

“You’re so beautiful,” he says, and he sits down on the edge of the bed, trailing his hand up the length of her stocking-clad leg, lingering at the gap on her upper thigh.

 

“Come here?” she implores, reaching out her arms for him.

 

He complies eagerly, lowering his body over hers, and kisses her slowly, fingers raking through her cropped hair as he brushes his tongue against hers. She murmurs something against his mouth, a silent confession of love that he needn’t hear to understand. He knows; knows a thousand times over.

 

He draws his lips away from hers, making a slow journey down the length of her neck, her chest, and continues through the satiny fabric of her lingerie. It’s a tease, he thinks, for her to have chosen a corset. She knows full well his impatience with the contraption, and how he’s far more approving of the undergarments of Storybrooke. So he elects not to remove it, and is in fact more turned on by the thought of her choosing this to bait him. He palms her breast through the material, and presses a lingering kiss to her sternum, just above the fabric’s edge. She arches into him, a gasp escaping her lips.

 

Encouraged, he moves lower and lower, then lower still until he’s closing his mouth over her satin-and-lace panties, gazing up at her hungrily. She returns his look, fingers carding through his hair. “These need to come off,” he says huskily, tugging on her underwear, then quickly realizes that getting them off might require more work than he’d initially thought, the garter belt in his way. He grins up at her mischievously. “Are you really attached to these?”

 

She shakes her head, smile broadening, and he promptly rips them free of her body, tossing them aside. She laughs.

 

“What’s so funny?” he teases, settling on his stomach between her legs. Before she has a chance to respond, he’s massaging her gently, fingertips trailing the length of her slit.

 

“Ah,” she whimpers, shifting against his touch. “You’ve never really been one for patience.” She groans as he presses one finger inside of her.

 

“Twenty-eight years,” he reminds her, then adds a second finger, smiling as she shudders around him. “And you’re not much better.” To prove a point, he pulls out entirely, grinning at the exasperated look on her face.

 

“David,” she growls.

 

His fingertips ghost over her folds in response, brushing just lightly against her clit. She paws at him - his head, his back, his shoulders - whatever she can reach, until he finally relents, closing his mouth over her.

 

The sound she makes is damn near inhuman, and she’s arching her back as he strokes with his tongue, long, rhythmic circles around her clit. He drinks her in, tastes her, and presses his fingers back inside her again, curling against the slick skin there. She rocks against him in response, fingers threaded through his hair to pull him closer, and soon he can feel her trembling beneath him. She’s close, her breathing erratic, and so he pulls away, breathless himself.

 

David has barely crawled his way back up her body when she’s flipping them over, trapping him beneath her as she straddles his waist.

 

“Hi,” she breathes, chest heaving, and he can’t help but touch her; can’t help but reach up to fell the weight of her breasts in his hands, to trace the boundaries between skin and satin and lace.

 

“Hi,” he replies, and rises to meet her as she bends down for a sloppy, needy kiss. Her mouth trails further down and he gasps, hands stroking across her back as she works her way down his chest and stomach, pausing to scrape her teeth along his hipbone. If it’s even possible, he hardens more, squirming against her touch as he whimpers, fisting the sheets in his hands.

 

Snow wastes no time, taking his cock in her hand and _oh_. She strokes slowly, gazing up at him to gauge his reaction. He exhales shakily in response, and reaches down to stroke the shell of her ear, gazing at her intently. He knows what’s coming, knows their rhythm and it isn’t boring, the anticipation making it all the sweeter. He knows; knows from years of careless love-making in the forest, from the sweet days of their marriage bed, from a disastrous affair in another life. He knows and he still gasps when she takes him in her mouth, tongue stroking as she looks up at him through her lashes.

 

He can’t take it though, already so close on anticipation alone, and he needs to _feel_ her. “Snow,” he murmurs, cupping her cheek and urging her away. “Need you,” he says and guides her back to face him. She kisses him first, traces his lips with her tongue before she straddles him again, then sinks slowly onto him and _oh god._ His mind summons up the names of a handful of deities, but none make it to his lips and instead he groans her name again. “Snow …” His fingers are pressing tightly into her hips, a possessive grip on the one thing in his life that’s always made sense.

 

“Charming,” she replies, a name that is truly hers and truly his alone. She rocks against him, as if to emphasize that claim; that he is hers, forever. And there she is, all white and soft, with that damn holster strapped to her back to remind him that she is also anything but.

 

They build a rhythm, meeting thrust for thrust. He moves his hand to press his thumb against her clit again, rubbing circles in time with her. She’s beautiful - flushed all over, face drawn in concentration as she reaches her peak. When she’s close enough, unintelligible noises issuing from her mouth and hips grinding erratically against his, he sits up and pulls her into his arms, needing to feel all of her.

 

And then her muscles are clenching around him, her fingernails dug into the skin of his back and he just can’t take it any longer. He spills into her, arms wrapped around her with bruising strength.

 

They stay like that for a long moment, tangled up in one another as they come back down. He can feel her heartbeat pulsing against his hand, against his chest and he does all he can to memorize this moment. 

 

“Not that I’m complaining,” he says finally, still a little breathless. “But what was that for?” He gently guides her beneath the covers and curls up around her.

 

She smiles at him, tired but happy. “You’ve been doing a lot lately,” she says, stroking his cheek. “Being Emma’s deputy, working in the beanfields. You’ve been teaching Henry to swordfight, telling him to teach Emma too.” He opens his mouth to protest, but she cuts him off with a finger pressed to his lips. “I’m not blind, David. And then insisting I learn how to use a gun? Don’t even try to pretend I don’t know what you’re doing.”  
  
 _Damn._ “What am I doing?” he asks innocently.

 

“You’re getting us ready for ‘the final battle’,” she says simply. “You and I both remember Rumplestiltskin’s warning. A lot of stuff has happened since Emma came to town, but no final battle.” She shifts in his arms, sliding a leg up over his hip. “You’re preparing us to fight.”

 

_Busted_. He smiles softly at her, stroking her hair. “Not just to fight. To defend yourselves. In every way you can.”

 

She smiles back at him, then leans forward to press her lips to his. “You never answered my question, by the way.”

 

He frowns. “What question?”

 

“The one I asked you earlier,” she teases, her leg sliding against his. “Asked if you liked the holster.”

 

He laughs then, touching the leather strap on her shoulder. “Looks better on you.”


End file.
